***
Grainne saw him before he saw her, sitting slouched on his chestnut horse as the sun sank beneath the hills. Shimmering in the last golden rays, he looked like a god: one of those old Irish gods the villagers were always going on about, the heroes who had lived amongst the fairies and the giants.
But he was truly only a meddling huntsman, she told herself, one who had gotten in the way an awful lot for only working in the yard for two days.
Gretna picked up the pace when she saw the fellow horse: she, at least, was thrilled to have company for the ride home. Traitorous mare. Grainne gave her a pat anyway. She had been very patient today, waiting for Grainne to wake from her nap — and to rise from her tryst with Len.
Goosebumps rose at the thought of his body upon hers again, and when she finally rode up to Mr. Archer, her face was flushed. In the dying light, she watched his eyes take in her disheveled hair and her blushing cheeks, and saw his face harden.
He knows.
That was ridiculous… just her guilt talking. There was no way he could possibly know about Len. He might have his suspicions, though. That would certainly explain why he was following her around every evening.
“Allow me to escort you home, Miss Spencer,” was all he would say to her, though, and they rode up the hill in silence, seeking out the gates and low stiles in the hedges instead of bothering to canter up and jump them. They would be home after dark, she thought, but her father would not consider her compromised, not when she was out riding with one of his huntsman. Which was really terribly funny, of course, considering how thoroughly compromised she really was. Any more ruined and she would have to produce a babe.
She glanced over at him a few times as they rode, trying to judge just how angry he was, or how much he might know about her time alone. But he would not look back at her, and his jaw was so tight she thought he would splinter into a thousand pieces if he should fall from the saddle. She sighed, not bothering to cover it up with a cough, but he did not turn. The man had no sympathy for her feelings at all. He was really and truly furious with her.
As they turned into the yard, Mr. Archer finally spoke, though he did not turn to face her. “I wish you would do me the honor of ceasing to ride out alone,” he said tightly. “And of disappearing for entire afternoons. Where I come from, a gentleman does not allow a lady to endanger herself so, but puts himself out in order to assure her safety. I assure you, I will always put your safety ahead of my own comfort.”
Grainne was astonished. He must be joking! She looked at his face, though it was dim in the shadows, and saw that he was still taut and angry; she could appreciate how very serious he was. But she could not change her actions for him; he was the reason why she knew she had to leave as soon as possible, after all. He had come to take her place when she was married off to Mr. Maxwell. “I am accustomed to coming and going as I please,” she choked out. “I have never needed a minder to watch over me.”
“I cannot be comfortable with that,” Mr. Archer insisted. “But if you cannot be considerate of my feelings, though, I shall simply have to go on enduring these long days watching over you.” They had arrived at the stables, and he jumped down from Nick and led the horse away to his box without a backward glance, leaving Grainne to feel quite flustered.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Grainne was late to dinner that night.
That wasn’t anything particularly out of the ordinary; she was often late to dinner. After all, she often reasoned, her father had entrusted the care of the horses to her, and horses did not pay any attention to human schedules. She was too cautious to leave their constant emergencies to the stable lads without her supervision, and so was often kept out late by colics, broken bridles, upturned water buckets: these things had to be attended to before she could take off her boots for the night and don something more appropriate to the dining room, and her father understood that. Indeed, he expected it.
So it was with no particular sense of hurry that she combed out her hair, looped it back into a chignon, and wiped the dirt from her cheeks and neck with a damp cloth. The bell rang and rang again, and still she took her time, slipping into a clean gown, faded with age but still perfectly presentable, she thought, and sliding her feet into comfortable, unfashionable slippers.
Mrs. Kinney was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, looking put out.
“Why, whatever is the matter, Mrs. Kinney?” Grainne asked in some alarm. She stopped on the landing, arrested by the housekeeper’s forbidding expression.
“You’re late,” Mrs. Kinney stated in grave accusation. Her jaw squared, and her grey curls fairly bristled with outrage. “The dinner party has been waiting for you these twenty minutes and more.”
“The dinner party! How formal we have grown!” Grainne tried to laugh, but the housekeeper was having none of it.
“Yes, the dinner party! Mr. Maxwell is here, and so is Mr. Archer. Now hurry up, before the soup is cold.”
Grainne barely suppressed a groan, but sped up her feet on the stairs. Mr. Maxwell! That tiresome dolt! He would speak of nothing but sheep and sheepdogs, and Mr. Archer would be of no use at all; knowing him, he would just cast baleful looks at her and be as insufferable at the dinner table as he had been out in the fields.
She followed Mrs. Kinney through the hall and into the sitting room like a lamb to slaughter, eyes downcast and hands neatly folded in front of her, and when her father stood up, making no efforts to conceal his impatience, and hastily introduced Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Archer, she nodded to each man without meeting their eyes and followed her father demurely into the dining room, ignoring both gentlemen’s offer of their elbows. She was determined to get through this night as quickly as possible, and beg off with a sick headache if she absolutely had to. Although she was running out of excuses before her father called in the doctor.
But seated across from Mr. Maxwell, who was making alarmingly watery and red-rimmed eyes at her over the soup course, and next to Mr. Archer, who seemed overwhelmingly large and muscular in his chair beside her, Grainne found that she could not escape either conversation or flirtation. Maxwell had long made his fascination with her perfectly clear, rating her, it must be admitted, somewhere below sheep and sheepdogs, but certainly higher than his prize cattle. And unless she was very much mistaken, Archer had noticed Maxwell’s attention, and was rising to the bait himself.
She sighed and dipped her spoon into her soup. It was going to be a long evening, after all.
“The new litter is exceedingly attractive,” Maxwell droned, his pink ears waggling behind ludicrous golden muttonchops. He really was the most ridiculous looking man, Grainne thought for the hundredth time, watching his cherry-tinged jowls wobble as he spoke. For heaven’s sake, he looked twice his age, and his waistcoat buttons were fairly bursting to pop from his paunch. They were a hazard, those buttons. If he laughed, one might fly across the table and hit her in the eye.
“You must come and see the pups,” he went on. “I shall give you pick of the litter, if your father does not disagree.”
“We should be so pleased to have one of Grand Duchess’s pups!” her father exclaimed, looking genuinely thrilled at the prospect. “Grainne, isn’t Mr. Maxwell too kind?”
“Too kind for words,” Grainne murmured, coming to the bottom of her soup bowl. Really, her father must not think highly of her intelligence at all if he thought she would ever voluntarily accept this dog-obsessed fright as her husband. True, there were few people of their station in life to associate with around the county: the Spencers were awkwardly genteel, especially for this sparsely populated county. It was not easy being Anglo-Irish, she reflected. Without sending her to Dublin, there was no one as eligible as Maxwell within visiting distance. And she would have roundly refused being sent to Dublin, had the topic ever been seriously broached.
Just as she would refuse Maxwell. By leaving before it could become a problem.
“These dogs are hard workers, though. They are
not happy unless they are given a task,” Maxwell warned, wagging a finger. “You shall have to have some sheep to keep him content. I shall lend you some, and assist you in their keeping. Sheep are most interesting creatures, Miss Spencer. You must oversee their diets as carefully as a child’s —”
“I am really not interested in anything besides horses, I’m afraid,” Grainne interrupted, and beside her, Archer made a strangled noise she suspected was a choked-back laugh. “You will find me very single-minded in that preference.”
“Ah,” Mr. Maxwell sighed, fumbling with his wine glass. “Ah. Yes. Horses. Fascinating creatures, horses,” but he didn’t sound particularly convinced.
“Horses are the most noble creature on earth,” Mr. Archer announced, wheezing still. “Civilization rides on the back of a horse.”
“To be sure, a mighty animal, though one must admit sheep clothe us and feed us most admirably.”
“And shepherdesses are most fetching with their little crooks!”
“Mr. Archer!” Grainne could hardly bite back her own laughter. Across the table, Maxwell was thoroughly at a loss.
“But there is no sight so fine as a horsewoman in the saddle, I think,” Mr. Archer continued blithely. “Have you seen Miss Spencer ride, Mr. Maxwell? She is splendid.”
Grainne thought she had never blushed so much in one night.
“She is the finest rider in Ireland,” Mr. Spencer stated solemnly. “She could best any horseman in England.”
“Oh Father, come now…”
“’Tis true, daughter, and you know it.”
Grainne was quite desperate to turn the subject from her riding, and the subtext that she was certain was a discussion on how becoming she looked in the saddle — and how improper in her breeches. The last thing she needed was an accord between Maxwell and her father on the impropriety of her riding dress.
“Mr. Archer,” she said suddenly, “How do you find Irish society after your time in England?”
William turned and smiled down at her, and she was struck yet again by the way he loomed over her. She was tall, but he was broad and muscular in a way she could never be, so that she felt small for the first time. Precisely why she preferred to be on horseback, she thought. So that men could never have an edge on her just because they were larger.
But his size wasn’t altogether disagreeable… she let her eyes stray from his tan face and down to the rather obvious muscles showing through the blue wool of his coat. It was uncommon fine wool for a huntsman to be wearing, she thought.
“I admit that it is a quieter life than the one I led in England,” Mr. Archer said slowly, watching her traveling gaze with some amusement. “But I cannot ask for more delightful company.”
Grainne met his blue eyes again, saw the flicker of something hot and dangerous there — the word is desire, she thought tensely, thinking of something nearly the same she saw when Len looked at her, as if he wanted to eat her up — and blushed pinker still. She thought her cheeks would never cool on this wretched night. Mr. Archer only smiled slowly, dangerously.
Mr. Spencer harrumphed as he cleared his throat. She looked around. Mrs. Kinney, standing by the door, looked alarmed. Mr. Maxwell looked aghast, as if a new thought was coming into his mind that was altogether disagreeable.
Grainne put down her soup spoon with a clink that echoed in the silence. How foolish they all are, she thought, trying to slow down her own heartbeat. Mr. Archer is the least of their concerns.
But her cheeks were still pink, and she could feel the heat of them. She grasped at her glass of wine, nearly toppling it, causing a gasp from Mrs. Kinney.
Mr. Archer, still smiling at her, lifted his own glass, tipping it slightly forward in a secret toast, and drank rather more than was socially acceptable.
Mr. Maxwell fumbled with his soup spoon, not happy until he had dropped it on the floor and caused a clatter.
Mr. Spencer called for the meat to be carved.
“A bit of chicken,” Grainne said weakly.
“Beef!” Mr. Archer told the footman with lively abandon.
“Have you any mutton?” Mr. Maxwell asked meekly. “Nothing finer for the digestion.”
“Mutton’s for old men and peasants,” Archer announced pleasantly. “A day in the saddle makes a man long for good red meat. Should try some, Miss Spencer, you were out longer than any of us.”
“Oh, I couldn’t eat a bite —” Was that a jab at her riding out alone tonight? Was he going to make a scene with her father? Was he getting foxed? Drunk men were so dangerous at a dinner table.
“Miss Spencer, have a bite of mutton. It will do you such good.”
“She isn’t some auld Irish gran on her deathbed, Maxwell, don’t be ridiculous!”
“Sir, one cannot be too careful of one’s digestion. And a young lady who is out in all weathers must be especially careful of her health. It is most upsetting to think of.” Maxwell’s jowls fairly quivered with upset.
“I hope you are not criticizing Miss Spencer for being a strong horsewoman. It would not become you to speak ill of such a great talent. And of course she needs to keep her strength up, that’s why she needs beef, to build her up!”
Grainne thought perhaps everyone in the room was going mad. Why was her father not stepping in? What was he doing while these obscene men sparred over meats? Tucking into a great bloody chunk of beef, that’s what he was doing! She was quite on her own. “Just a bite of chicken and some sauce,” she assured the footman, who nervously complied before the gentlemen could clear their mouths enough to intercede.
This dinner could not end soon enough. She was having a horrible night.
***
William was having a splendid time.
Mr. Maxwell was quite the most ridiculous man he had made the acquaintance of in some time. He had been a little put out when he had arrived for dinner and Mr. Spencer had informed him they would have company at the table that evening. Mr. Maxwell, Spencer had informed him, was a most excellent addition to the neighborhood: a knowledgeable farmer, a good landlord, and in possession of an income that would make him desirable to any young lady. It was a wonder, Spencer had said slyly, that he was not married yet.
William had accepted a brandy and tried to still the sudden tic in his jaw. Spencer was apparently in a sudden hurry to marry his unladylike daughter off; William wondered why. After putting her in charge of the stables that were Spencer’s livelihood, and withdrawing to the earl’s kennels, it was strange that he’d suddenly be thrusting her into the marriage market. And in such a half-hearted manner, as well; there was, as far as William could tell, no one at all of their class within a days’ ride.
Besides the estimable Mr. Maxwell.
Perhaps Spencer just didn’t know how the game was properly played. There was no Mrs. Spencer, after all, to drape Grainne in the proper gowns, send her to the proper houses, and arrange her on the proper sofas. But he knew, thanks to Peregrin’s thorough research before they had come to Ireland, that Mrs. Spencer had been the second cousin of an English earl and had dowered Mr. Spencer a brother-in-law rather high-ranked in government. The girl had a few connections. It would have been a simple thing to gain invitations for the girl into Dublin society, and find her a nice honorable fellow for a husband.
The most ignorant of men should have known that he needed a governess, a schoolroom, and an invitation from the brother-in-law’s wife in order to properly provide for his daughter.
Instead he left her to be a wild horsewoman with only this ridiculous pink-faced shepherd of a squire for consideration as husband.
William rather liked her as a wild horsewoman, although he would prefer it if she stopped disappearing for afternoons at a time. He doubted that Maxwell would allow her such freedom to be herself. He’d heard there to be no horses but farm horses and carriage horses at Boyle House. Maxwell did not consider riding a healthful exercise. There’d be no more riding, to say nothing of doing so in breeches and astride.
He liked her a bit too much.
She seemed to sense his gaze and looked up at him, the pink flooding her white cheeks again. She blushed a lot, this girl. Funny, it wasn’t in keeping with her temper. He met her eyes and held her there, still as a rabbit in a net, for a long moment. The clinking of silverware and the conversation between Spencer and Maxwell seemed to fade away. They were alone in an empty space.
“Mr. Archer?” she whispered tentatively. He would never have believed she could sound so timid. “Is something amiss?”
“No,” he answered. “Nothing is amiss, nothing at all.” And he smiled.
A smile touched her lips then, brief and uncertain, and then she looked back down at her plate, flushing up to her ears.
William took another sip of wine, and thought about how very badly he was doing at lying low in Ireland.
CHAPTER NINE
The first letter from Peregrin arrived only a few days after he left William in Ireland. And it was chock-full of words which William did not want to read.
Your father does very well despite your absence, which I am sure is just what you were hoping to hear. Of course it is a quiet season, with most of London decamped to the country, but he does his share of entertaining, and sweet Violetta is never absent from these gatherings. She is noisy as ever, I must say, despite all the gossip about your sudden disappearance. I have not noticed any particular young stag keeping her company yet. Perhaps her fortune cannot compensate for her giggling. You may be sure that she will insist on answers soon, so be sure to keep your head down. Her mama will grow impatient soon enough, and move on to fresh prey.
Miss Spencer Rides Astride (Heroines on Horseback) Page 5
